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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577292">Beauty and a Grill</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless'>DarkShadeless</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tales of a Wandering Knight [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Absolutely cheesy romance, Beauty and the beast - With a twist, Comedy of Errors, Crack, Fairy Tale Logic, M/M, Oven-Sar is the most pissy toaster ever transformed, Prince Raan and his menagerie of polymorphed servants, XD, and he has the vocabulary to prove it, happy endings all around, have fun, vs. the toil of everyday life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:22:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,048</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577292</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Barbecue, baby! What a burn!<br/>Lord Raan, rightful heir to the Heights of Odessen and one and only Prince of Darkness, may have blundered in his latest meeting with the Fairy Godmother and his servants are along for the ride.<br/>Though maybe it would be more accurate to say that <i>he</i> is…</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pairings are secret :P for fairy tale reasons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tales of a Wandering Knight [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096412</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Brought to you by this post (https://darkshadeless.tumblr.com/post/189337434323/queercapwriting-teaboot-mjalti-why-come) and the headcanons it spawned XD</p><p>Warnings: Terrible paraphrased Disney songs. And non-Disney songs. And entirely made up songs.<br/>Some depression snuck in but tell me that's not canon for the Beast tho</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>It is said that once, some time ago, the Heights of Odessen were home to a prince. He lived in a great castle, overlooking all of his land, and hoarded gems and riches as a dragon might, though those were but trinkets to him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His heart, they say, was as cold as ice. In the shadow of his presence the people toiled upon the land and so harsh was his rule that to this day none dare speak his name. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thus it has been lost to history, as is the way of things.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Who knows if the stories are even true? If there was ever a prince in our divided country, he has not been seen in a long time. It makes for a good story though. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They say his court was just as fantastic and decadent as he. That his castle housed all manner of beasts and wondersome creatures. Indeed, that in his home the floors were of marble, the cutlery of gold and monsters lurked in darkened corners for the unwary to be blinded by the glitter and fall prey to their hunger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But one day the Fairy Godmother came and she wandered the land. When she saw how the people were suffering, she gave the prince a choice. ‘See sense,’ she said, ‘and I shall spare you a lesson in humility.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What the prince answered? Your guess is as good as mine. He was never heard from again.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The sun rises at five in the goddamned morning, as it is wont to and has been, ever since their wonderfully cosy nook of the world was cursed within an inch of its spirit. Fuck Satele Shan and her sparkly powers of goodness and friendship.</p><p>If only their Lord had kept his big fucking mouth shut just once… but nooooo. No. He didn’t and ever since it’s been sunshine and rainbows and-</p><p>With the sound of an undersized ballista the tranquil morning is shattered into itty bitty pieces. Gaily tweeting birds flee for their life as burning pieces of bread ricochet out the window and into the rose-bushes. “RISE AND SHINE YOU UGLY FUCK! TIME TO HEAR A SONG!”</p><p>And thus starts another day in the Manor de Nuit.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“… with blackest HEART, as dark as NIGHT! And every maiden flees his SIIIIIGHT- urk! No, don’t you dare throw me- AAAAH!”</p><p>The shout echoing through the courtyard ends in an abrupt splash. Timmns sighs, deep and heartfelt. “I wish he would stop doing that.”</p><p>One of the adorable white puppies his summons have been reduced to whines supportively. Looks like they’re fishing Sar out of the fountain again. That will be the third time this week. Just for the record: it’s Tuesday.</p><p>By the time the bottle holder and his litter of fluffy whelps have conquered the last flight of stairs, a not inconsiderable achievement, Sar’s vassals have attempted to stage a rescue of their own. His small army of salt and pepper shakers that vaguely resemble tiny suits or armor, or perhaps chess pieces, have repurposed a kitchen towel for a rescue line and are trying in vain to tow their master out of the water.</p><p>He’s too heavy for them.</p><p>That has yet to keep the dumb little things from trying. They’re as single minded as their maker.</p><p>Timmns watches the spectacle, feeling every single day he has spent in this accursed form. “Alright boys. Yip-yip.”</p><p>At least his dogs are still obedient, no matter what they look like. The puppies swarm at his command, much to the salt and pepper shakers’ dismay. They squeak in protest as a horde of clumsy and excited fluff-balls descends upon their construction, barking, bowling them over and causing general ruckus. Chaos descends.</p><p>Timmns remains at the foot of the stairs in relative safety and hums a work song to himself. A few more minutes of being submerged won’t kill Sar. He’s literally immortal, just like they all are while the curse lasts. It can only be good for him to cool off a little.</p><p>“Goodness me,” hisses a cultured voice from the top of the staircase. It seems Yare has decided to start early on his way to further his quest of finding the best spot to sunbath in the garden. The small, green snake is mustering the battleground with concern. “Isss the fountain sssmoking?”</p><p>“Personally, I’d say that’s steam.”</p><p>“Oh. Oh… Again?”</p><p>“Again.”</p><p> </p><p>They do manage to free Sar from his predicament, eventually. He thanks Timmns by coughing a whole grill’s worth of pond water all over his polished finish.</p><p>“Ugh. Sar, that’s disgusting. Oh my god, are those crumbs? Do you ever clean yourself?”</p><p>“Fuck off, I don’t have arms.”</p><p>“You have raclette forks!”</p><p>“They’re not meant for grill-cleaning, you heathen!”</p><p>Timmns pulls a face to the best of his ability, seeing as he barely has one. “Could you at least stop spitting your leftover ammunition at me?”</p><p>Through an unrepentant maw that would make a (very very tiny) crocodile green with envy, Sar, the most bad tempered of all toaster ovens in existence, snaps, “I don’t have a mouth either. I can’t spit.”</p><p>“You could have fooled me.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“Alright, troops.” Sar shuffles through a turn and waddles past the lopsided line of his salt and pepper shakers, that do their best to stand at attention. One of them fumbles their toothpick-spear. Sar elects to ignore that. “We have to up our game. Our campaign is not aggressive enough.”</p><p>“Sar.”</p><p>“Shut it, Timmns, I’m plotting.” Another turn, another laborious waddle across the hall. His tiny feet are not meant to be a mode of transportation and it shows in the execution. At least he has four of them, even if he would kill for a set of arms. One hundred years. A whole fucking century. Unbelievable. “Seriously, how hard can it be to get prince monster–face laid?”</p><p>“Maybe it would help if you stopped calling him that. You’re going to give him complexes.”</p><p>Sar growls something incomprehensible. “He’s never going to get off his arse if we just let him mope around! Someone has to kick him in the pants!” That’s it. That is a <em>genius idea</em> and he’s so good at setting things on fire too! That’s the one upside to this blasted form.</p><p>Timmns musters the shark-toothed tilt of Sar’s grill. One of his prominent fake eyebrows twitches. “Whatever plan you’ve just hatched, don’t do it.”</p><p>“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“Sure you don’t.”</p><p>The faint undertone of true stress takes Sar’s wind out of his sails. He deflates into a half-hearted sulk. “Timmns, we have to do <em>something</em>.” It comes out a little too raw. And too melodious. God, he is so <em>sick</em> of this. “Don’t you care at aaaall~! Don’t you want your body baaaack? Don’t you-” '<em>want to fly again?</em>' folds itself into his mouth, full of harmony.</p><p>Sar manages to catch himself and force down the notes before he actually gives them a voice but he doesn’t have to. The silence that falls between them is as heavy as it is awkward.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>There are a few things you just don’t ask.</p><p>Thankfully the glacial stiffness that has crawled into Timmns’ silver bands eases at his apology. He doesn’t want a repeat of their last real fight. That was a disaster from start to finish and Timmns didn’t talk to him for a <em>year</em>. He’s not going through that again.</p><p>His friend-cum-bottle holder sighs. “We all want the curse broken just as much as you do, Sar.”</p><p>“It really doesn’t feel like that sometimes.”</p><p>The more time passes, the more it seems as if their fellows are arranging themselves with their predicament. Yare is happy just sunning himself these days. Even Lana has stopped chipping away at their prince’s resistance to setting foot outside his room, much less the mansion itself.</p><p>Raan hasn’t gone into the garden in over ten years now, not since that one hunter came by, spotted him and promptly tried to nail his pelt to the wall. What a rude asshole.</p><p>At this point Sar is running out of ideas. He has tried anything and everything, short of maybe burning the house to the ground. There’s a thought…</p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p>“I didn’t even say anything!”</p><p>“I know that look, Sar. I know <em>you</em>.”</p><p>“I’m an angel!”</p><p>“You’re a closeted pyromaniac.”</p><p>Sar pouts. Insofar as a toaster oven can pout, at any rate. His projects aren't so much abandoned as fossilized at this point. Wherever the curse has put his smithy, it's never going to be the same. He would like to see <em>Timmns</em> cope with not being able to work for a fucking hundred years! </p><p>(He wouldn’t. He has. The last time Timmns got cabin fever their wine racks ended up sorted alphabetically <em>and</em> by year and every single bottle was frozen solid. Sar can’t even drink and watching that massacre hurt his very soul.)</p><p>Sadness and helplessness well up in his iron core, or whatever else he has for a heart right now, and- and he feels it. No. <em>No</em>. Horror laces his voice. “Timmns. It’s happening again.”</p><p>If Timmns could still do expressions properly he would be a picture of resignation. “Don’t fight it. You know how that turns out.”</p><p>How can he even say that?</p><p>But he is <em>right</em> and Sar needs- He has to-</p><p>
  <em>Express his feelings in song.</em>
</p><p>Sar squeezes his eyes shut and almost chokes on the first croon of what he can already tell will be a ballad so cheesy he will have to dunk himself in the fountain again just to feel clean. “Oh, how I loooong for days gone byyyyy…”</p><p>Ugh. This is the fucking <em>worst</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>One incredibly embarrassing duet later Sar is still salving his ego when the sound of a bell alerts him to their audience. Oh great. Another witness to his daily dose of humiliation.</p><p>From the top of the balustrade Kira is looking down at them, careful not to overbalance. Not an easy feat for a kitten perpetually stuck in the clumsy phase of aging and with that monstrosity of a bell-clad bow on top of it. They have yet to find a way to get it off her neck.</p><p>“What do you want, fuzz-ball?”</p><p>Kira’s tail flicks. Spurred by the familiarity of someone stuck a hundred years in the same damn place with the same damned people (literally) Sar is drawn out of his funk. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>The kitten frowns as much as a kitten magically engineered to be adorable is able. “Heskal’s awake. You asked me to tell you, remember?”</p><p>Did he remem- “Are you shitting me?”</p><p>Kira’s tail flicks uneasily again. “No.” She hesitates visibly before adding, “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”</p><p>Would he? Maybe. At this point no plan is too stupid a plan to be tried at least once. “No promises, cat-girl.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The trek up the stairs is drudgery in the extreme. Timmns has the advantage of long limbs and flexibility. Sar needs to order his tiny knights to build themselves into pyramids to hoist him from stair to stair. It’s fucking embarrassing, that’s what it is, but needs must.</p><p>Since Raan banished Heskal from his rooms, not that he ever listened to him in the first place, their resident seer hasn’t bothered to stay awake for more than a handful of hours at a time. Perhaps he can’t. Sar can only speculate how incredibly boring it has to be to stare out the window all day. At least he’s <em>mobile</em>. Even a waddle eventually gets you somewhere in the vicinity of else.</p><p>There’s nothing much to see up here, either, just sky. Heskal is hung, as story-logic demands, in the highest room of the highest tower, eastwards. Every morning the sun plays over the surface of his mirror and that has some incredibly important connotations that Sar cannot be arsed to remember. Bla-di-bla, portents, bla-blub, prophecies with the clarity of dawn, who the fuck knows.</p><p>Fact is it is pure torture to get there and he is half-convinced the bastard will have decided to take another nap before he makes the distance.</p><p>Thankfully, that’s not the case.</p><p> </p><p>Heskal’s chambers are darkened. Someone has closed the drapes, to keep out both sun and air. As they enter the only thing lighting their way are the few candles that have been lit. Incense is heavy in the air.</p><p>Sar huffs. Sometimes he is really glad he doesn’t need to breathe anymore. “Bit hard on the clichés today, are we?”</p><p>There is a miffed pause. Then, out of the darkness, a sprinkle of light glances off ripples in a mirror more than man-high. Slowly, they coalesce into the semblance of a face. “Did you come all this way just to criticize my choices in interior decoration, Sar?”</p><p>“Shouldn’t you know that?”</p><p>Heskal’s forehead creases in displeasure. “How often have I told you-“</p><p>“- it does not work that way,” Sar finishes with him. “Yeah, yeah. Look.” He does his best to straighten his posture. “I need a few pointers. Think you could help me out?”</p><p>The mirror-image looks down on him silently. There’s an intensity to it Sar definitely hasn’t missed. He always feels as if the bastard is looking right into him.</p><p>Finally, Heskal says, “That depends.”</p><p>Oh, nothing good has ever come from a sentence like that. “Depends on what?”</p><p>A small smirk plays over the mirror-face’s lips. “You know the rules, Sar.”</p><p>“Oh, come on!”</p><p>“Do you want your answers or not?”</p><p>“Fine! Fine.” Sar spends the next few moments mumbling to himself furiously. Why are rhymes so bloody hard? “Okay. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, servant that once stood so tall, have you something in your sight that might end our dreary plight? And not our idiot prince, pray tell, or we shall wait ‘til it snows in hell!”</p><p>Timmns can’t quite swallow a snicker at the ending. (Or maybe that’s the delivery. Seldom has a prophecy been courted in a tone this grumpy.)</p><p>Sar throws him a glower. “What?”</p><p>Now laughing quietly, the bottle holder waves his limbs defensively. “Nothing. Nothing.”</p><p>“My poem was <em>perfect</em>.”</p><p>“Of course it was.”</p><p>A rogue gust of wind howls through the room, blowing all candles out. Light-sucking darkness falls. The only thing still visible is Heskal’s face, larger than life.</p><p>No matter how long accustomed they are to their bickering, the shiver that runs down Sar’s plating has him falling quiet.</p><p>Into the eerie silence the mirror speaks, tone hollow: “<em>The prince must break our prison here, there’s no recourse for that, I fear.</em>” Sar’s heart falls. Damn it.</p><p>But Heskal’s prophecy isn’t over. “<em>That’s not to say it can’t be done, that through his hand this must be won. Every path doth lead two ways, that’s how the Lady Fortune strays.</em>” The seer’s empty eyes fall on Sar and he can’t suppress a shudder. “<em>The time has come, oh little knight. You wish for this to be set right? If he won’t seek, he must be found or we shall be forever bound.</em>”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“Sar. Sar, slow down a minute!”</p><p>Sar ignores that ludicrous suggestion and continues to barrel down the hallway, if one can call his top speed ‘barrelling’. They don’t have time for sense. Gods and fairies all, they don’t have <em>time</em>.</p><p>Once you’ve been stuck in barely changing monotony for a few years, that word starts to lose all meaning. Such is the nature of curses, especially when they come with handily built in immortality to really drive the lesson home.</p><p>Sure he was annoyed, right ticked off at that, with their entire situation and everybody’s unwillingness to <em>do</em> something about it but Sar had always figured they had that at least if nothing else. <em>Time</em>.</p><p>Perhaps he had grown complacent in his own way.</p><p>“Sar!”</p><p>Timmns darts in front of him. Thankfully not so closely that Sar doesn’t have room to break. Stopping takes him almost as long as accelerating does.</p><p>It’s a close call, made closer by Sar’s split-second of hesitation over whether to bother with this interruption. “You heard him Timmns! Get out of my way!”</p><p>“Not before you tell me what you’re going to do!”</p><p>Stubborn bastard. Isn’t it obvious? But then, that’s not what Timmns is really asking is it? No, the question he is trying not to put into words is another one.</p><p>Sar steels himself. “I’m going out there.”</p><p>Stricken indecision flickers over his friend’s metal wrought features. What he wouldn’t give to just see his face again, see <em>his own</em> face in a damned mirror that doesn’t talk back. What he wouldn’t do to return his home to what it once was, to regain what was taken from them.</p><p>Timmns’ not-face grows blank. “I can’t let you do that.”</p><p>Betrayal splinters through him but… yeah, that’s about what Sar expected.</p><p>The world is a big and dangerous place, all the bigger and more dangerous for how small and helpless he currently is. What is he going to do if some human tries to do him in? Poke their eye out?</p><p>But there are more important things at stake here than Sar’s safety, now more than ever. He’s not resigning himself to an eternity of this bullshit. “I was afraid you might say that.”</p><p>He was. From the moment he understood what Heskal was telling them, what he had to do, he knew Timmns would never accept that. They’re not quite cut from the same cloth, for all that they have gone through thick and thin together.</p><p>Sar has no doubt Timmns has his back, to the very end, but there’s only one way that will go here and it’s not the one Sar needs it to.</p><p>Toaster or not, he will eat a spatula before he fails his duty. He will brave what’s out there and he will find the only thing that can return their prince to what he once was, or croak in the attempt. Whoever their salvation is, they're going to smooch the Prince of Darkness, whether they like it or not. True Love better watch out, Sar is coming for it and he won't take no for an answer. Death before dishonour.</p><p>Too bad he will have to go it alone.</p><p>The silence that has taken the corridor is dangerous already, before the first cord falls. Sar can tell from the glint of Timmns’ battle-ready silver lines that he’s in for a fight.</p><p>He frees his raclette forks with a click of his grill. They float above his squat form in a halo of pointy, undersized steel. Sar hasn’t been as quick as his friend in a hundred years but he has a few tricks up his sleeve. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDbPEn0TL9k">A song</a> thrums through him, heavy with what’s to come. For once he doesn’t bother to fight it.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Think you’re the one to turn me lose? </em></p><p>
  <em>I’ve shot the sheriff and I slipped the noose. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The law ain’t ever been a friend of mine and I’d kill again to keep from doing time! </em>
</p><p><em>You should never ever trust my kind…</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Sar can see the answering verse rising in his companion as if it were himself. Timmns really should know better, especially with that kind of forewarning. Fairness is for people and appliances who can afford it. Only one of them can command their minions with a thought.</p><p>His salt and pepper shakers aren’t the most manoeuvrable of fellows but they can be quick when he puts his mind to it. By the time Timmns realizes he’s about to be ambushed it’s already too late.</p><p>His cries fall on deaf ears.</p><p>No one’s going to find him until Sar is well on his way. Even the singing is much too commonplace in their home to attract attention anymore.</p><p>“I’m a wanted man! I’ve got blood on my hands! Do you understaaaaaand? I’m a wanted maaaaan!”</p><p>The world is waiting and Sar is all done doing the same.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Ignorant of what mischief his subjects are up to a shadowed, hulking form is hiding in the shadow of his curtains to look down at the garden from a distance.</p><p>It’s as close as he allows himself these days.</p><p>His lungs burn. Sar isn’t the only occupant of the Manor de Nuit brought to song by their emotions and this particular one is never far from the lord of the house. It’s on his lips now, rumbling in his chest with inevitability but he has resisted so far. He will cleave, he knows it, but not yet. Not yet.</p><p>“My prince.”</p><p>“What is it, Lana?”</p><p>If his listless answer disheartens her, she does not show it. Then again, her form is not the easiest to read, which is probably the only thing about it that pleases her. A quill is not what he would have envisioned his chief advisor as, no matter how gilded and sharp the nib, or how plush the feather. She does prize words... still. He would not have chosen this for the shape of her heart, much less one she might wear for eternity.</p><p>But there are many of his subjects he would not have imagined as what they became under the curse laid upon them. He, himself, is the only one that grew and twisted from it, an elephant in a china shop with the plates and teacups come alive.</p><p>Is this really his true form?</p><p>The notes arrested in his throat turn darker and Raan forces his mind away from that thought. The last time Sar caught him singing <em>that</em> song he set his drapes on fire.</p><p>“My prince. You need to eat.”</p><p>“Do I?”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>.” Where others may waffle Lana is all frustration, blunted as it may have become. She’s not above poking him in the butt with her surprisingly pointy pen-nib and has proven that on more than one occasion.</p><p>“Fine. I’ll… I’ll be down soon.”</p><p>How often has he promised exactly that? Too often.</p><p>Instead of retreating his advisor hovers in the doorway. Perhaps she can sense how close the song his heart belongs to is, today. It wouldn’t surprise him.</p><p>“Raan…”</p><p>Raan hunches in on himself under the faint sadness in her bell-like voice. “I’ll come. Leave me.”</p><p>After a few more heartbeats she gives in. No matter how he has failed them, Lana still listens when he commands her, like all of his loyal servants. Well, all but one.</p><p>Thinking like that does not help in quieting the need to sing. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1YuGmtgkAg">The first line</a> slips past his lips before Raan quite knows it. “I heard there was a secret chord… but you don't really care for music, do you?”</p><p>It echoes through his chambers, smaller and more lonely for how he attempts to swallow the rest. It won’t work, not for long. It never does.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">Songs</span><br/>Sar's daring escape: I’m a wanted man - Royal Deluxe<br/>Raan's lament: Hallelujah - Rufus Wainwright</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Sar’s high spirits last to the first bend of the road, and the second, and all the way to the edge to the forest. That’s about when he has to take a break from singing to catch his (mostly metaphorical) breath. “Damn it. I don’t remember the big, wide world being this damned big.”</p><p>At least he’s out of the driveway.</p><p>Nothing for it. Someone’s gotta do it and no one else is volunteering, so this is a one-toaster job.</p><p>He can do it. He’s going to find prince monster-face’s One True Love and free all of his friends (and himself) from the curse they’ve been labouring under so long, no matter what. Onwards!</p><p>The manor falls away behind him, obscured by trees. For the first time in a long time he is well and truly alone.</p><p>And then it starts to rain.</p><p> </p><p>“I can do it, I can do it, I can do it, I can do it… Ack!” Sar slides back a few steps for the umpteenth time, losing half an hours work of drudgery to slippery pebbles and mud. “God damn it!”</p><p>Why, oh why are his legs so short? Why is this road a bad excuse for a slide? Who is supposed to keep it in shape? Sar has a strongly worded letter or two he’d like to shove right where the sun don’t shine.</p><p>If he were made of less stern stuff he might be tempted to give up. Just… go back home, where it’s warm and dry and he doesn’t have to duel magpies, who try to steal his forks from him. The big, wide world is not all it’s cracked up to be.</p><p>But he knew that. Sar <em>is</em> made from sterner stuff, the sternest stuff around. “Come on. You can do it. I can do it, I can do it…”</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, he does. He conquers the hill he has been struggling with in the streaming rain. Really, if you opened the floodgates of heaven it couldn’t be worse.</p><p>“I did it! I did it! I- SHIT!“ Aaaand the hill is just as steep and slippery on the other side, as it takes Sar all of two triumphant seconds to find out.</p><p>All of this is very inconvenient and he’d like to lodge a complaint.</p><p>… at least he gets to the bottom of the ravine right quick, even if it leaves him with a few dents.</p><p> </p><p>A little while later finds Sar sitting at the side of the sodden road, trying in vain to straighten the raclette fork he landed on with what amounts to his teeth and feeling more than a little sorry for himself. Of all of them, it had to be Jiminy. Of course it's Jiminy, his poor baby, and the little fork is still wailing inconsolably about the dents Sar doesn't have the tools or hands to fix, when thunder rolls. Only, there’s no flash of lightning that follows. Actually, the thunder doesn’t <em>stop</em> rolling- wait a moment.</p><p>“Fuck!”</p><p>Sar fumbles his fork and scrambles to get out of the open in time. He almost doesn’t make it. The rider dashes past so close the mud his horse flings up damn near buries him but at least he isn’t trampled. “ASSHOLE!”</p><p>He never did learn when to keep his big mouth shut.</p><p>The next horse in the band shies and tries to break away into the forest. Its rider forces it back on track with a hand so harsh Sar’s grill twitches in discomfort. More riders thunder past, ragged and dirty. They ignore both him and their companion still wrangling his recalcitrant mount back onto the path.</p><p>When he manages that much, he peers into the mud at the side of the road suspiciously.</p><p>Sar decides to employ the better part of valor and play dead.</p><p>“Will you look at that. Somebody pinch me, is that a golden fucken toaster?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Wednesday is washing day. Most of the inhabitants of the Manor the Nuit do not require clothing anymore but their master does, the kitchen still needs towels and the drapes do still catch dust.</p><p>The scullery is alive with chatter and song when one of the maids realizes most of the curtains from the east wing seem to have gone missing on the way. She knows for a fact that they’ve been taken off.</p><p>Huh. Who thought it would be a good idea to jam the laundry chute?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Raan is picking at a very late breakfast when his ears twitch. What was that? He could have sworn…</p><p>Before he can decide that his mind is playing tricks on him, the sound of metal on metal and possibly smashed glassware repeats, closer this time.</p><p>“Let me through, get bent- MY LORD!”</p><p>The world is as of shadow and smoke sometimes, unreal, but he isn’t so far gone he can’t recognize the sound of one of his own in distress. Raan is up, toppling his seat on accident, before the door is half to opening.</p><p>Somminick Timmns, Watcher of the Eastern Gate and currently reduced to the duties of an oft redundant sommelier, bursts into the dining room as soon as the gap is large enough for a bottle holder to squeeze themselves through. He is dragging a shredded curtain behind him and shedding enough frost to put the Ice Queen herself to shame.</p><p>“My Lord! He’s gone- He-“ Timmns tangles himself in the dead-weight and falls. He goes down, struggling desperately with his bonds. Raan’s heart skips a beat in horrified sympathy.</p><p>“Somminick?”</p><p>Goodness, he can count the times he has seen his commander so out of sort on one hand. Much to Lana’s consternation he abandons his breakfast entirely to cross the cavernous room in quick steps.</p><p>Timmns is still wriggling, catching himself worse with every move he makes and entirely heedless of that. It takes precious minutes to calm him enough for Raan to dare and intercede. His strength is, in a word, monstrous. The threads of the ruined curtain give easily under his touch, too easily to be careless. But even freedom does not calm his usually unflappable knight. Somminick's thin, silvery bands wrap around his wrist and he clings to it with enough force Raan actually feels his bones creak. Wood sprites and spring...</p><p>“What happened?”</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“Yon… left?” Raan’s mind can’t seem to process that simple sequence of words. Of course he had noticed that his morning had been free of wake-up calls and dubious serenades but... he <em>left</em>?</p><p>Of all his servants Sar, Forgemaster and Watcher of the Western Gate, has never given up trying to shake him from his moods. No matter how he was evicted, every morning without fail Raan would find himself assaulted with baked projectiles and weaponized merriment.</p><p>His overseer has a very peculiar way of showing his care (and his ire) but there is one thing Raan can say he knows for sure: Sar has never given up on him. In his own way he had always believed in him and in turn been incredibly offended when his prince did not live up to the potential he saw in him. But he had never given up trying to motivate him to do just that.</p><p>The curse had only felled his <em>loyal </em>subjects and loyal they still are, no matter how he disappoints them.</p><p>“I tried to stop him, I swear I did, but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t listen to my pleeeeeas…” Timmns trails off in melodic dejection. He blows his nose into a shred of curtain. Rime crawls across the richly woven rag. “Heskal got him all worked up and you know how he gets.” </p><p>Does he ever. Raan knows all too well how his forgemaster gets, less a knight with a cause than a dog with a bone, no matter his form. It’s one of his more endearing qualities, unless you’re the bone, that is. “Worked up about <em>what</em>?”</p><p>Timmns lets his improvised handkerchief sink, expression so solemn Raan is immediately on edge. That is the look of a soldier facing a losing battle they know they will fight anyway. “Sar went upstairs to ask for a reading about the curse.”</p><p>The room grows unnervingly silent as every servant watching the spectacle freezes in their tracks. To the last they have long started to avoid that topic with their prince, all but Sar who wouldn’t be deterred. If pressed, Raan couldn’t say which approach he preferred. “What did Heskal say?”</p><p>The words vibrate with the first sparks of his anger, made dangerous with the growl rising in his chest.</p><p>To Timmns credit he doesn’t hesitate for longer than the blink of an eye. Determination and a healthy dose of defiance flickers over his metal-wrought face. “He said there was another way. That it didn’t matter how your True Love was found and brought to you, the curse would break as long as that happened.”</p><p>His frankness borders on disrespect. Every single of Raan’s shortcomings stings under the reminder, the underlying accusation only Sar would dare voice outright.<strike></strike></p><p>“And he told Sar that if we didn’t break it now, we never would.”</p><p>All of Raan’s sparking anger is snuffed out. “What.” No. That’s- That’s not possible. He knows for a fact that that possibility should not exist. It can’t exist. That would mean-</p><p>Whatever retort is on Timmns’ lips never sees the light of day. Raan abandons him for the door, his head spinning with what might await one of his own out there and ending on the same note again and again. <em>No</em>. It can’t be. He won’t allow that to happen. “Lana. Have the stable ready my horse.”</p><p>“My prince?”</p><p>Even afloat as she ever is, his advisor has a hard time keeping up with his stride. He barely even notices. “I’m getting him back.”</p><p>If it isn’t already too late. It can’t be too late.</p><p>Please, don’t let it be too late.</p><p>“But, my lord-“</p><p>“This is not a debate, Lana! There’s not time to waste.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Ha! Did you see that thing? I’ll smelt it down and, cast it to coins and then I’ll buy myself ten whores!”</p><p>“Pff. You don’t even know what to do with one, what use do you have for ten?”</p><p>Raucous laughter echoes through the cave. Sar grimaces and continues to inch through the shadows as carefully as he can. Bandits. Of all things. <em>Bandits</em>.</p><p>What he wouldn’t give for a sword and the size to use it.</p><p>In his entire brilliant plan, he hadn’t quite considered that he is, more or less, a solid, walking, talking brick of gold. His grill is cast iron, the rest of him not so much. Just like every other appliance and embellishment in the Manor de Nuit he is a little ostentatious. That’s all well and good as long as it doesn’t get him <em>kidnapped</em>.</p><p>Sar resolutely refuses to think of it as ‘stolen’.</p><p><em>Bandits</em>. Really. This whole damned country has gone to the dogs. Why, in his day and age no ruffian would have dared show their face within riding distance of their court! At least no ruffian who wasn’t also <em>part</em> of the court.</p><p>At least so far this band of geniuses seems to be well distracted in drinking their ill-gotten gains away. If he is just a bit careful he’ll sneak out right under their noses and that will be that.</p><p>Now if he could only find the exit. An exit. Any exit. That would be <em>great</em>.</p><p>Going by the interior decoration he’s not headed in the right direction, though.</p><p>“Drats.”</p><p>Sar musters the rusted bars with distaste. Prisons are usually almost as deep behind the lines of defence as treasure hoards are, so one about turn should do, right?</p><p>Before he can make up his mind heavy footsteps send him scurrying further into darkness. Why is he so damned <em>shiny</em>?</p><p>One of the bandits, almost as broad as he is tall, bang upon the bars of the lone cell. “Rise and shine, princess. Time for your grub.” He dumbs a bowl of grey-ish sludge on the ground. Sar can <em>hear</em> the ugly smile in his voice with the unerring instinct of a man who is used to singing his every last feeling.</p><p>What the bastard is on about becomes clear soon enough. The lone prisoner, beaten up and shivering in his underclothes as he is, has his hands bound behind his back. The only way he’s eating is face-first.</p><p>Sar can’t quite suppress a huff. Bullying. Real classy.</p><p>To his credit, the punching bag in human shape doesn’t react past favouring his captor with a flat stare. He makes no move towards the bowl.</p><p>Gutsy. Could cost him his chance at a meal, which isn’t smart, but Sar will give still give him points. The stare-down drags on, until Sar is half sure he will be stuck here until they notice he is missing and he really can’t afford that. The only thing that would be worse than a bunch of idiots trying to smelt him would be if that bunch of idiots realized their piece of treasure has tried to walk off by itself.</p><p>Thankfully the bandit gets bored of this game eventually. Outside, the noise of drinking and carousing has only grown louder. He should be safe for a while yet. Time to make his get-away…</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>Shit, fuck, <em>damn</em> it. This is just not Sar’s day.</p><p> </p>
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